The portière that divided this room from her bedroom was drawn back. It was a spacious apartment hung entirely with grey silk even to the curtains of the bed, upon which lay the countess in a white négligé, supported by pillows. The sleeve of her right arm was thrown back, and the dreadfully inflamed arm was covered with a wet compress, which a maid who sat near the bed moistened constantly with some strongly smelling fluid from a medicine bottle. Clara's face was much flushed, her eyes had the brilliance of fever, but they looked calmly resigned, as her friends entered with their sorrowful faces. As soon as he saw the poor suffering girl, von Stielow rushed past the others, and falling on his knees beside the bed and folding his hands, cried in a stifled voice, "Clara, my Clara!" "My own friend," she said gently, and stretched out her soft left hand towards him, "how beautiful life is, how sad to think of the death that is so near me,--God will be gracious, He will not part us!" Stielow bent his head down upon her hand, and touched it lightly with his lips. He could not say a word. Only a deep sob broke from him. Count Rivero approached the bed with a quick step and a commanding movement. "Hope! countess," he said in a firm, clear voice, "God will bless my hand! And now, baron, give up your place to me, moments are precious!" He slightly touched the shoulder of the young man as he knelt. He rose hastily and stepped aside. The count removed the compress, and calmly examined the wound. It was much swollen, of a bluish colour, and long streaks of inflammation extended to the shoulder. All eyes rested on the count's face with the most earnest anxiety; he looked at the wound attentively and lightly followed the swelling with his finger. Clara gazed with surprise mingled with hopeful confidence, at this man who was quite unknown to her, but who stood so quietly beside her and who had so confidently said to her, "hope!" The count concluded his examination. "It is quite true," he said; "corrupted matter has got into the wound, the poison has spread greatly, it is almost too late!" He opened the black casket he had brought with him, and which he had placed beside him on the table. It contained a small surgical apparatus, and several little cut glass bottles. The count took a knife with a golden handle and a highly-polished shining blade. "I beg your pardon, countess," he said in the tone of a man of the world, "I must hurt you, it is necessary." The young countess smiled. The count took firm hold of the suffering arm, and quick as lightning cut two deep gashes crossing each other into the wound. Thick blood mixed with matter flowed from it. "A handkerchief!" cried the count. They gave him a cambric handkerchief; he quickly removed the blood, seized a glass bottle, opened the wound widely and poured into it a portion of the contents. Clara's face grew deadly pale; she closed her eyes, her lips quivered convulsively.